Look What The Cas Dragged In
by babybluecas
Summary: There's a guest in the bunker. Dean's nose is not a fan.


These days, you can't even let Cas out of the bunker for a grocery run without him bringing back trouble. This time, at least, he's no way to hide his crime, thanks to (well, he's not very grateful for that) the perfect detection device for this kind of danger that is Dean's nose.

"Achoo!"

Dean's own sneeze reverberates through his bones, effectively shaking him out of his late evening drowsiness. He mumbles a quick 'bless you' to himself—'cause who else is gonna do it?—before crossing his arms and leaning back in the chair, trying to find the comfort that got rudely snatched from him.

But as soon as his muscles settle just the right way in the softness of his seat and his eyelids begin to fall, a tickling sensation climbs up his nostrils and it twists there and turns until—

"Achoo!"

Now, this? This is no good.

Dean pokes a knuckle at the side of his nose, trying to get rid of the bother, but it persists, no matter what he does, and after the third sneeze comes the fourth and then the next and then his nose is all stuffy and itchy, and his eyes begin to water too.

The only reason Dean's waited this long with springing off the chair and rushing out of the room to find the culprit is that he tried very hard to thrust himself into the depths of denial concerning who the hell and why would dare to do this to him in his own freakin' home.

"Cas!"

He comes banging at his supposed boyfriend's door until a voice comes from the inside.

"Give me a second!"

And, oh boy, Cas better be bare-naked right now, watching porn or some ridiculous beekeeping videos or whatever guilty pleasure he's trying to hide from him and not be doing what Dean suspects he is doing.

It takes Cas exactly four sneezes—and those are becoming a regular time measurement unit by now—to call back and allow Dean inside.

"Dean, hi, what's up?"

Cas is sitting straight up on his bed, front-facing Dean right on, fingers laced on his lap, just in case his words didn't sound shifty enough. Dean narrows his eyes at him, which nearly blacks out his field of vision in his current, puffy state. Not enough, though, for Dean not to notice the random pile of clothes and weapons (for freakin' real?) at the feet of his bed, the duffel bag behind Cas's back.

But before he gets to notice anything else, Dean's nose pulls off an entire twenty-one gun salute, solo, which, at last, earns him a very, very quiet and innocent 'bless you' from Cas.

Oh, he's gonna show him bless you.

"How was the walk, babe? Anything unusual?" he says, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe for a hot second and a half.

"Why are you asking?"

That tone again.

And Dean's really got no words, so he just stares at Cas; and they'd have a mighty staring contest, right there, if only Cas wasn't looking anywhere but at Dean (and if Dean's eyes weren't all welled up like they're prepping for the big California drought).

Ladies and gentlemen, we find the defendant guilty as charged, and not even trying.

It goes on forever because Dean never loses the non-staring contents, and this time he's so good at it that even Cas's duffel bag can no longer stand the pressure and it nearly jumps out from behind Cas into a vulnerable position. Then it wags off the bed and plummets into the floor with a barely-there thud and a squeaky meow.

"Freakin' knew it!" Dean shouts as Cas scrambles after the bag.

"Achoo!" echoes his nose.

He's not feeling as triumphant about his win as he'd like to because there's nothing to feel triumphant about, here. He had taken Cas in, gave him a roof over his head, a comfy bed, amazing food and his undying love, supported through the tough adjustment period. And this? This is how he repays him?

"I'm sorry Dean," Cas begins, straightening up with a gray ball of fluff cradled in his hands, "I was gonna tell you. I know you don't like ani—"

"Is the li'l fella alright?"

It has gotta be the tiniest cat Dean's ever seen, yet such a powerful Dean-ptonite it is. And Cas stuffed it into a big, scary, hastily emptied duffel bag. Talk about insensitivity.

Cas lifts the kitten up, the teeny face to his eye level. "He seems fine."

"Good. Now get rid of it before my brain comes out of through my nose."

Dean turns around to leave, with an exciting plan of stuffing his stomach full of allergy pills, undergoing an entire pandemic quarantine-style disinfection procedure and locking himself in the furthest corner of the bunker.

"But—"

Dean closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, nearly loses a tooth in a massive sneeze, and again faces Cas and the little critter climbing up his shoulder, both of them shooting some excellent puppy (uh, kitten?) eyes at him.

"What?"

"It's cold and wet outside, I only brought him in because he was soaked and trembling, I can't just kick him back out there."

Now, Dean doesn't know who Cas thinks he's speaking to, and he's gonna pretend it's not his humble person because was he to assume so, he'd have to be deathly offended at that. What kind of heartless tyrant is he taking him for?

"Dude. I meant: find the owner, asap. Or someone to take him in. Ask around, tomorrow."

Luckily, Cas appreciates how gracious he's being, though it's not like Dean's got any other choice. It's late, and, honestly, he just wants to leave Cas's room before a cascade of flowing teardrops starts pouring down his face, and just try to get some sleep.

Here's to hoping the very considerate love of Dean's life hasn't yet given the cat a proper tour of the whole, freakin' place, contaminating it with fur.

"And I'm begging you," Dean adds, right before shutting the door behind him, "keep him in your room 'til then."


End file.
